The land in northwestern Arizona flows with its own [...]]]>

In which the dirty birds break down on an Indian reservation in the middle of the Arizona desert, press on through Colorado in tandem minivans, reclaim their van in time to make it through Texas only to have their dreams shattered once again in Mississippi. 

The land in northwestern Arizona flows with its own color and majesty. The desert can be a stark and peaceful place, solemn with the echos of time. From the road you can sometimes see terraced villages carved into the side of a hill, the ancient habitations of cliff dwellers long since passed from this world. Red and orange dust rising from beneath your tires. The paved road tracing a crooked line through the empty wilderness of rock and brush. I felt very much out of place after being in California, land of green and blue.

JJ with that look.

We made a pit stop in the afternoon to rest and stretch our legs and use the bathroom at a small Indian trading post. There was a cafe and a gas station full of trinkets and woven Navajo blankets for sale. Everything seemed overly quiet, as if no one moved too quickly lest they disturb someone or something unseen. I sat in the shade of a tree outside, the shadows falling across the uneven ground—paisleyed and dancing as the branches moved in the wind. When it was time to leave, I got behind the wheel and pulled back onto Highway 160, the two-lane road that was to take us to Durango, CO for our show that night. But as soon as the engine roared in acceleration, I felt something give, a loss of pressure in the pedal beneath my foot. There was a strange high-pitched whirring sound, a cloud of blackish rank smoke spewed from the exhaust pipe, and all of a sudden the van was working hard to stay at 30 or 40 mph. We were dead in the water. An 18-wheeler coming up fast behind us laid on the horn and I veered to the side as it passed me, stirring up golden clouds of dust in its wake. We made it over the next hill and I let off the gas and cruised down. “Umm, we have a serious problem here. The acceleration no longer works.” “What?!” “Yup, uhhh…” “You think we can make it to Durango?” “Man, I don’t think we should drive it like this. I don’t know if it’ll make it up anymore hills…” “Shit.” “Yeah.” Just then we saw another little gas station ahead, lucky for us since we hadn’t seen any for a few hundred miles and then here there were two within a few miles of each other. Limping slowly, trailing smoke, we swung the van over the deep-rutted dirt shoulder, pulled into the station and ground to a halt, dust rising around us. “Fuck.”

As we later learned, we had blown the turbo part of our turbo-diesel engine. Sorry Ramada, we drove you pretty hard I guess. 20,000+ miles in the past three or four months. The sun was beginning to set, casting long orange fingers across the sky. A squat little dog shuffled up inquiringly. We named her Pigdog. She had enormous, over-engorged nipples hanging down and swinging about, must have just given birth to a litter, and was very relaxed and friendly. This calm demeanor turned out to be cold and calculating, as she hung out with us for the next few hours lulling us into complacency only to steal our giant bag of Fritos and trot off triumphantly into the brush. Ha! We’ll still love you forever, Pigdog, you earned those Fritos.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=pnhqmpx5BQo

It was especially fortuitous that we managed to pull into a station because there was little to no (emphasis on no) cell phone reception out there. The nice ladies in the little food store let us use their landline to call AAA, and we learned it would take at least two hours for the tow truck to reach us. The station had no address and apparently wasn’t even on the map. Literally. Like the dispatcher told us there was no gas station at that particular mile marker, to which we replied “well, we’re standing in one talking on their phone…” That’s how middle-of-nowhere we were. Good old Red Mesa, AZ. As night fell, more and more people pulled in to gas up or buy food, all giving us the same bemused, inquiring look, all wondering what in the hell nine scruffy white people in a funny-looking old hotel shuttle were doing broken down way out on the Rez. Real nice folks though. One guy offered to tow us with his tiny Toyota truck, just chain us to his hitch and drag us along, even suggested we stay the night at his family’s home… his wife didn’t seem too enthusiastic about that. Another guy moseyed up to Jackson and warned, “Yup… better hope that tow truck shows up before 8 or so.” “Why’s that?” Jackson asked. “Well, the policemen go home, and then all the crazies come out. You know, racing around and things, causing trouble. Don’t want to be here for that. Nope.” We weren’t sure what he meant exactly, but weren’t particularly keen to find out either.

Red Dust in the setting sun..

Finally, after several hours of waiting, the tow truck arrived. The driver was an older Native American fellow, and his two young grandchildren were asleep in the front seat of his truck. “Sorry, had to watch them tonight and I’m the only truck within a hundred miles. You guys don’t mind, right?” “Of course not, we’re just happy to see you!” Also, Phil’s sister Mary and her husband Bill had driven up to Durango all the way from New Mexico to see us play that night. When it was clear we wouldn’t make the show he called them. Being the gracious souls they are, they insisted on driving the hundred extra miles to meet us just in case we couldn’t all fit in the tow truck and would need a ride. They ended up arriving two minutes after the tow truck. JJ rode in the truck with the driver and his sleeping grandchildren, Phil, Aidan and Johnny rode with Mary and Bill, and Arleigh, Jackson, Sasha, Ryan and I rode in the Ramada van, now perched high up on the flatbed.

Oh Dear God..

(Dirty Birds trivia note: lyrics from the song Road Trip reference a previous such circumstance, eerily similar in fact… Arleigh, Jackson and their sister Lauren once broke down in the middle of Arizona and rode in their disabled car atop a flatbed, drinking Early Times and “singing in the backseat like the Barstow choir…” yeah, no joke.) It was quite a procession, traveling the hundred-plus miles to Durango, deserted desert roads becoming progressively more mountainous, the moon rising high above the land. So picture us sitting nervously high up in our already-tall van, dreading every bump and turn… Also, know that there is exactly one overpass on Highway 160 between Red Mesa and Durango. As we approached it, looming shadow racing closer out of the darkness, I suddenly had the horrid thought that we might not actually clear it… I start doing emergency mental math, even though there’s no way to contact the driver. Does he know our clearance? The van is over 8ft and the flatbed is, well, uh, uh, and shit theoverpasssaysclearance13ftaaahh!! swooooosh! Aaand exhale. That was damn close.

Luckily again, there was a diesel specialist in Durango, the only one within a couple hundred miles. Since we got in super late we just left the van in their parking lot and checked into a nearby motel. Mary and Bill drove a few of us down to Walmart, the only store still open, to get some food (we hadn’t eaten since Pigdog stole our Fritos), and they soon returned bearing what little food they could find. Frozen pizza that we immediately realized was supposed to be cooked in an oven (we had but a microwave), a huge bin of salad greens and veggies, peanut butter and jelly. A mini-feast in the lobby of the motel. That all-too familiar bemused look from the clerk. What a day. The next morning we got the news that the turbo was blown, and that it would take a week to get the part and install it. And it would cost $3,000. Dammit. What are you gonna do though? Stuck out there not even really a third of the way into this great big tour. So we tried to rent us a van down at the local airport—they didn’t have the one advertised so they gave us two mini-vans instead. You should have seen us! Soccer mom stylings! We set out that afternoon for Denver, a six-plus-hour drive through steep mountain passes and across the high plains. I tend to be biased being from California and all, but Colorado is gorgeous! What a beautiful country we live in, America is truly a blessed place—the wonder and grandeur, land shaped and molded of the spent bones of old gods.

On the way to Denver

Sun setting over Colorado mountains.

“You don’t see that in Brooklyn.” “Is that Prospect Park?”

www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOVH_FvTiWY

Over the next few days, we played shows in Denver, Winter Park and Evergreen. Marvelous places, friendly people, delicious microbrews. We already knew we’d need to cancel our gig in Lincoln, NE to go back South to Durango to pick up our van, but when we did get back there they informed us there had been a mix-up with the new part (ironically it went to Denver, we could have picked it up!) and it would now be two more days. So we also had to cancel our second show at Bottleneck’s in Lawrence, KS, where we were supposed to play with our good friends Rubblebucket. Which is really too bad because we were all really looking forward to meeting up in the middle of the country, sharing a few drinks a few laughs and a few stories. Oh well, next time.

We left Durango sometime in the late afternoon of Wednesday, October 19th and headed Southeast. We spent the night in Albuquerque at a house generously opened to us by Phil’s relatives, and continued on down I-40 Thursday morning, leaving the West behind us. No more mountains, no more craggy snowcapped peaks. Trees few and far between, endless flat expanse. We stopped for gas at a small trading post just inside the Texas border, cute old post office, sent some postcards to loved ones. Felt the land beneath us change with every Eastbound mile. That night we played The Deli in Norman, OK, just outside of Oklahoma City (where we stayed a second time at Aidan’s folks’ house)  and then the next day dropped down South to Fort Worth, TX where we played at the Bass Performance Hall. The Deli was one of the smokiest bars we’ve ever played, and when we took out our instruments in Fort Worth they all reeked of smoke. Ha, even my cymbals! Makes you think about the old days, when every bar was like that. Saturday night was Momo’s in Austin, one of the most fun shows of the whole tour. It was a triple bill with us, The Pimps of Joytime (Brooklyn! What!), and Yo Mama’s Big Fat Booty Band (from Asheville, NC). Man, what an epic night of music, feet stomping, booties shaking… three heavy bumpin and grinding bands funkin it up, just rockin hard all night.

Raging it up in Austin.

Sunday night found us in Houston, playing at McGonigel’s Mucky Duck. Beautiful venue, darkly stained wooden walls, great restaurant, a wide selection of delicious beers on tap. Really intimate, tables right up to the low stage. We had a little over 100 people come out and the place was almost sold out! Very attentive crowd, really listening, hanging on every note. Those four shows pretty much perfectly illustrate the wide variety of venues and audiences we play for: you’ve got your basic bar with a stage (The Deli); a large open theater space with more of a concert atmosphere and a bit of an older crowd (Bass Performance Hall); a hotspot music bar with a younger, drunker crowd who want to dance all night (Momo’s); and an intimate club, mostly sit-down, dinner crowd (Mucky Duck). And we rock them all, bringing our dirt and playing off the energy we get from the crowd. It really is amazing how much the energy in the room shapes the music.

We took Monday off, played Sticky Fingerz in Little Rock, AR on Tuesday and The Bottling Company in Hattiesburg, MS on Wednesday. Nothing much to report, except that I kept looking out for the gunslinger, Brett Favre, the whole time we were in Hattiesburg. Oh yeah and it was Trivia Night before our show at The Bottling Company—we entered as a team (Yamn Dankees) and won a $50 bar tab! Didn’t know what to do with it cause we were already getting free drinks so we just opened it up for the other teams, though they seemed disinclined to accept. Again we had transitioned into a different US region—the Deep South. Deeep. Talk about laid-back. Driving through sleepy towns, watching people walk down the street in almost slow-motion, droopy trees, BBQ and fried food, humidity in October.

We had that Thursday, the 27th off and decided to drive up to Jackson, MS so some of the guys could catch a show by the Dead Kenny Gs. An ultimately fateful decision. A few hours after we got to the hotel (The Jackson Inn… Jackson had a fun time in Jackson), we found that our back left tire was down all the way on the rim—must have gotten a slow flat as we came off the freeway. We had been meaning to change the tire for a few days (it was bare as all hell) but just hadn’t quite gotten it together. Oh well, we had a spare. But no jack, so I called AAA again and had them send someone out to change the tire. One of the lugs was stripped and the guy only had a tire iron so he couldn’t get the wheel off. The next morning I called another tow company and they sent out a truck with a pneumatic powered lug remover. The guy went to work. Boy did he go to work. Take the flat off, no problem. Put on the spare, no problem. Tighten the lugs? Problem. The lugs didn’t seem to want to go all the way in. He spent over a minute on each lug, pushing hard, grinding and driving it into the wheel. Finally they were in all the way, he left and I started the van up to drive to Firestone and get the original fixed. But the back wheel was locked. Wouldn’t move at all. What the…? Called them back. Another tow truck, same company different driver, showed up and we hoisted our poor van onto to his flatbed, the wheel stuck and dragging the whole time. When we got to Firestone, the guy there decided in his infinite wisdom to try to just DRIVE it from where the tow truck had left it into the garage. Halfway there, screeching and leaving tire marks in it’s wake, I heard a loud CRACK as a bunch of twisted metal fell from the wheel well and the wheel started turning freely. Long story short, somehow the tow truck guy drove those damn lugs through the wheel, through the brakes, and INTO THE AXLE. When we got it up on the lift you could see the brakes were shattered. And the axle. And the caliper. Pretty much the whole damn thing was bent and broken. My own spirits mirrored the state of the van. Jesus, could our luck get any worse? So avoidable in so many ways. Why? I informed the band and wandered off, waiting to find out if we could rent a van, found a liquor store, bought some cheap bourbon.

Broken, boarded up window in Jackson.

I found myself wandering half-dazed through some rundown ghetto in Jackson, MS, burnt-out abandoned buildings, junk cars parked in front of long-closed auto mechanics, weeds growing from the open hoods.

Abandoned gas station.

I turned down a random street. It ended after a ways, but a path continued on into a grove of trees. I could hear a train whistling mournfully somewhere hidden behind the trees. I walked into the woods and just sat. Sat and reflected and sipped my whiskey. After a few hours, I finally reemerged into the land of the living and made my way back to Firestone to meet the others. We gathered what gear we could fit into the smaller rental van, leaving behind anything non-essential (such as most of our clothes) and left immediately for Tuscaloosa, AL to make it to our show at Rooster’s. Forever on and onwards always.

Will the Dirty Birds make it back to Brooklyn? What will become of the poor Ramada van? Can our heroes keep this crazy train rolling through the wild wilderness of America? Tune in next week for the exciting conclusion of Uncaged Tour 2011!!!

yr friend,

Bram

Dark Skies.

In which the dirty birds leave their nest, drive across the country, revisit several of their birthnests, rock with Rebirth and take over California.

Monday September 26th was a glorious day, the first day our first major national tour. It was also the last time we would ever meet up and depart from the [...]]]>

9/26/11—10/10/11. 

In which the dirty birds leave their nest, drive across the country, revisit several of their birthnests, rock with Rebirth and take over California.

Monday September 26th was a glorious day, the first day our first major national tour. It was also the last time we would ever meet up and depart from the apartment at 796 Grand St. in Brooklyn, where Ryan had been living for four years (and lately Jackson as well), where we had come up with all this dirtiness—rehearsing and dreaming in the basement. It was our home base of operations, headquarters, and the site of much revelry. 796, you will be missed. The sun shone down on us as we wheeled our way north, across the George Washington bridge, weaving through Jersey traffic, finding our way back to I-80, driving west towards the soon to be setting sun. There were four of us—Arleigh, Sasha, Jackson and myself—who had taken on the noble task of getting all our gear and the van out west while the rest of the birds flew out to join us later. The first night we made it to Illinois, then turned up North just across the border into Michigan, where we had found a cheap Red Roof Inn. The next day we made it to the middle of Nebraska. Then the following day we got on the road at 10am and drove all through the day and night, until at 8am the next morning we finally pulled into my mother’s place on a mountain above Truckee, CA, near Lake Tahoe. We arrived to the serendipitous sounds of ‘We are the Champions’ busting out from the radio, the sun rising above the early morning mountain fog, illuminating mountain peaks which surrounded us like awakening, kneeling monks. Finally, after cracking a few celebratory beverages and making a tour of the man-made pond and waterfall that Jackson and I once helped build, we slept.

A picture from the sunset later that night.

California is a roughly-hewn palace of nature. A land of mountain and cloud, ocean and forest. The tap water in that house flows directly from an underground stream fed entirely from snow-melt. The previous winter I heard the snow-pack was 40 feet. Well, after a few blissfully peaceful days it was time to leave Tahoe, so the four of us piled back into the van and drove down to my dad’s house in San Mateo, just South of San Francisco. The other birds straggled in over the next few days, flying in from NY. After a full week plus of driving and then relaxing and preparing to start this thing, we finally all met up at JJ’s folks’ house in San Rafael, just North of SF (if you haven’t noticed by now, a bunch of us are from California), and then made our way up to Sebastopol, where we had our first of three shows opening up for Rebirth Brass Band from New Orleans.

A fortuitous start to the tour. 'Sister Parrow & The Dirty Bird'

Man those guys are funtimes. The club in Sebastopol is built in the old train station, and the music room itself (known as the Abbey) is designated as a historic building by the state of California. Beautiful wood-working, an incredibly warm sound, an A-frame roof with exposed beams. Later that night we all drove back and crashed at JJ’s house, somehow finding sleeping accommodations for all nine of us. Air mattresses, couches, back bedrooms. JJ’s room is still decorated with remnants of our shared past—pictures of our old jazz combo Wolfe Canyon that we started when I was in sixth grade and he was in seventh… wow. The next day it was off to Sacramento, where we played at Harlow’s. Ryan’s brother lives up there and came out to the show with wife and friends. And then finally, the show we had all been truly anticipating, Friday night at the Independent in SF. We had received word a day or two before that the night had already sold out. Some 500+ tickets. We were pulling at least 250 or more of those, as it was JJ and Ryan and my first show back in our hometown as part of SSDB and our families and friends came out in droves. Seriously, people I hadn’t seen in ten, fifteen years coming out the woodwork, super excited and ready to rock. Rebirth usually arrives right before the show, so we had the whole place to ourselves in the afternoon. Great guys working at the club, of course rocking the SF Giants black and orange—we felt right at home. And yet it was strange to be home, so much having transpired in the interim, bringing this new explosive dirt back with us that we’d grown back East… Anyways, the show was an amazing success. We played our hearts out, sweating up a storm onstage, dancing and smiling the whole way through, and then Rebirth took the stage and rocked us all until 2 in the morning. All in all, it was a hell of a way to return home as part of this band—swimming in positive energy, surrounded by the people I love. That night we drove down and crashed at Ryan’s folks’ place in Stanford, had a few celebratory drinks and readied ourselves for the next leg.

The next morning we drove down to Los Angeles, where we were playing The Mint later that night. Nothing like a six hour plus drive on less than three hours of sleep after a huge show. Michael, our manager, and Jon, our agent, had flown into LA to conduct business meetings on our behalf and also to see the show, and it was awesome to find ourselves all together suddenly, still more Eastern vibes transposed onto this Western canvas. Lauren Kincheloe (Arleigh and Jackson’s sister and my cousin) has lived in LA for several years working as an actor, and she came through with a serious crowd. Great show, the place was packed. Then the next night we played to about 15 people on a Sunday night in Fullerton, down in Orange County. Yup, we know the ups and downs by now, right? Fortunately, after that five show/five night California run, we had two days off, with only a few meetings thrown in for spice. We spent our time primarily searching for the perfect taco. Phil (our trumpet player) is from LA, so he took us on the taco tour, chauffeuring us from delicious stand to delicious stand, remarking on the subtle differences as only a true connoisseur can. About half of us stayed down there with Phil’s folks and the other half with Lauren, thanks to all birdhosts!

One story from that time that needs to find the light of day goes thusly: the night of the Mint, we were all standing around after the show, packing up and trying to figure out how we were all going to get over to Lauren’s house in Hollywood to party. Jon was standing next to me, and I think I had just turned to him to say something when out of the corner I saw a car roll to a semi-stop next to us. The next thing I knew, there were eggs flying through the air. BAM BAM WHAP. One hit me in the hand and harmlessly splattered across it, one hit the door of the club behind us, and one caught Jon square in the back of the head. “What the…?! Did we just get fucking EGGED?! Seriously?! HAHAAA!!” He took it like a champion, went inside to wash his hair and returned a few minutes later ready to rage. And rage we did… I woke up at high noon the next day on a couch on Lauren’s front porch, where I had apparently fallen asleep at some point during the night. There was an old man walking a tiny dog down the sidewalk, glancing at me suspiciously. The scene inside the house was chaos—JJ sleeping face down on the floor, a giant set of bunny ears laying next to him,

This was taken later that morning..

Jackson on the couch wrapped in a foxskin blanket,

Jackson and Lauren, his sister, my cousin. Actor extraordinaire.

Jon draped over a little love seat in the corner. My phone rang, it was Michael. “Where the holy hell is Jon?” “Hey, he’s asleep in the room behind me.” “ASLEEP?! He’s gonna miss his flight!!” “What time is the flight?” “In like, an hour and a half or something! Shit, what time is it? One? His flight’s at THREE!” I woke up Jon and told him what time it was, needless to say he was not happy. “Oh SHIT ohshitohshitohshitohshit…” He staggered around desperately trying to get ahold of Karleena, an associate of Michael’s who was supposed to have picked him up, but she was already too far away to be of any help. So I ran back inside, woke Lauren up, borrowed her beat up old car and we busted the hell out of there. The clock read 1:11 which I took as a fortuitous sign. Luckily the house where Jon and Michael had been staying, and where all of Jon’s bags and things were, was only about a five or six minute drive away. We rolled up in front of the house, but the gate was closed and there was no one home. Jon made a few calls, shook his head and sighed, and then hopped the fence and raced off towards the house, breaking in through a back door, eventually opening the gate for me. ”I gotta take a shower, jesus, it’s really the only thing that’s gonna keep me alive right now. I still got some damn egg in my hair probably” Jon said and sprinted upstairs. We left the house at 1:44. As fate would have it Highway 101 was completely clogged, so we followed the GPS on my phone, careening down side streets heading South, finally hitting Highway 10 and then off down 110 to westward-running 105. We rumbled our way into the airport at 2:30. “Uhhhh ok, I’m flying, umm… (checking his boarding pass) American! So that would be… shit, which terminal is it?” Turned out it was terminal 4, all the way around the damn circle. Flying around the terminals, cutting off a bus that was pulling over, we squealed to a halt beside the terminal doors with Jon jumping out of the car. “Alright, jesus man if this works you’re a hero” he barked as he ran into the terminal. The clock read 2:36. I honestly didn’t think he would make it, and sure enough, ten minutes later as I was cruising back up the freeway, my phone rang. “Did you miss the flight?” I asked, preparing to turn around. “Dude, DUDE! You are not going to believe this but I’m standing in front of my gate, and the damn plane hasn’t even started boarding yet! Ha! I can’t believe we made it! There’s a Burger King right next to the gate, and I’m gonna get a goddamn BURGER! Ha!” So we sat there and chuckled about how insane that drive had been and then we hung up and I found my way back to Hollywood, driving slowly up 101, stuck in traffic again, smiling in the bright California sun.

Later that evening, we all met up and hung at the beach as the sun slowly sank into the west. A fine time. A fine time indeed.

Stay tuned for more…

yr friend,

Bram

87
Total shows played 2010 & 2009, combined

28
Number of states played in 2011

2
Number of states played in 2009 & 2010, combined

49,307
Miles traveled in 2011

70
Percentage of those miles which were traveled in the 5 month period [...]]]> 129
Total shows played in 2011

87
Total shows played 2010 & 2009, combined

28
Number of states played in 2011

2
Number of states played in 2009 & 2010, combined

49,307
Miles traveled in 2011

70
Percentage of those miles which were traveled in the 5 month period from June 1st to November 30th

3,310
Miles traveled this year in rental vans because their own f^&*$#king van was in a repair shop

1
Speeding tickets (we’re not going to talk about parking tickets)

1,230
Approximate number of people offended at interstate rest stops

1
Number of lives saved on New Year’s Eve

12,034
Number of angry birds slung from slings

Not Enough
Football watched by Ryan and Bram, although they made a valiant effort (especially with Niners games – tethering laptops to cell phones to get internet access and watching games online)

7
Noise complaints (miraculously low)

1:1
Ratio of pots of coffee to bottles of whiskey consumed

54
Number of nights someone left a cell phone charger in the green room

2
Number of fans that flashed the band

1
Number of berserk fans that stormed the stage, jumped on Jackson’s back, and then flashed the crowd

Mark your calendars! We’re extremely excited to announce that June 2nd we’ll be taking the Main Stage at the Mountain Jam Festival. The initial lineup was just announced (The Roots, Gov’t Mule, 50+ others). Use the code SPARROW when you’re buying your tickets for your chance to watch us from the [...]]]>

Mark your calendars! We’re extremely excited to announce that June 2nd we’ll be taking the Main Stage at the Mountain Jam Festival. The initial lineup was just announced (The Roots, Gov’t Mule, 50+ others). Use the code SPARROW when you’re buying your tickets for your chance to watch us from the photo pit right in front of the stage! Grab your tickets at www.MountainJam.com

We’ve been selected as BMI’s Pick of the Month! BMI is presenting a showcase of the band at Rockwood Music Hall on Friday, January 6th at 9:30pm. We’re celebrating our first time back to Rockwood in almost a year – for us, it’s where it all began.

There are a very [...]]]>

We’ve been selected as BMI’s Pick of the Month! BMI is presenting a showcase of the band at Rockwood Music Hall on Friday, January 6th at 9:30pm. We’re celebrating our first time back to Rockwood in almost a year – for us, it’s where it all began.

There are a very limited number of tickets left – grab them now to see us in this beautiful intimate venue. Doors are at 9.

Tickets: http://bit.ly/birdsrockwood

http://nydn.us/birdsnews

In which the dirty birds make a record, get stage-rushed by an insane asylum escapee, triumphantly return to Kansas and spend a glorious moment in time with a shamanistic-type fellow.

So, hey there. This entry may or may not cover most of the month of August. We’ll see how it goes. But first things [...]]]> 8/1/11—8/21/11

In which the dirty birds make a record, get stage-rushed by an insane asylum escapee, triumphantly return to Kansas and spend a glorious moment in time with a shamanistic-type fellow.

So, hey there. This entry may or may not cover most of the month of August. We’ll see how it goes. But first things first: we made a record. Yup, that’s right, our second album is almost a reality. After Gathering of the Vibes, we returned to Brooklyn and hunkered down in the studio for a couple days with our esteemed comrade-in-arms, resident soundwizard Brian Bender. The dude is a freakin scientist at the boards. So, there will obviously be many more announcements and excited banter concerning the release of our long-awaited second album, but just know this much for now: the thing is going to blow yr sweet little minds. 100% Guaranteed. Mark it down. Looking at a late February release date, so keep your ears and eyes peeled way back for that. Anyways, moving on.

After laying down the basic tracks in the studio for three days, our first gig back on “the road” was actually on a boat in the Hudson River. A homecoming of sorts because we hadn’t played a single show in NYC this whole time, the darn thing pre-sold out, which made us birds feel extra warm and fuzzy. It was a truly special night—seeing all our fans and friends who’ve been with us since our golden olden days, or as we like to call them, our “Rockwood Music Hall Stage 1, all nine of us squeezed onto that crazy tiny stage” days. It had been raining on and off all day, and as people began filing onto the boat the clouds really opened up and started pouring down. Sheets of rain obscuring the mammoth skyscrapers, murky clouds and ominous, churning waves. However, we birds were undeterred from the task at hand which was of course to RAWK. So, picture us getting our sea-legs on with our longest-tenured fans, rocking and rolling upon the rain drenched waters of the Hudson, lower Manhattan, the Statue of Liberty and the bridges gleaming in the darkness…

The next morning we drove to Hudson, NY to play a show at Club Helsinki, a beautiful club in a giant, meticulously-restored century-old building that has become a bit of a second home for us, our Northern outpost. Suffice it to say (remember, I promised some modicum of brevity for this particular rambling) that we had a great time with the good people of Hudson. The next moonrise found us in Philly, playing World Cafe Live, and the subsequent sunrise found us driving towards Johnstown, PA, aka Flood City, hence the “Flood City Music Festival”. Really interesting history in that area in general but specifically in Johnstown, which has survived three historic and devastating floods. The festival as a whole was fantastic, capped by a performance by the great Greg Allman, but we had a particularly memorable time due to the antics of one ecstatic fan: So we’re approaching the middle of our set and the audience is getting really into it, hooting and hollering as Jackson shreds his solo on our cover of ‘Roadhouse,’ and there’s this one middle-aged woman drunkenly careening down the aisle to join the melee in front of the stage, swinging her beer above her head and screaming. The beer’s spilling all over the place, on her and the people around her but she doesn’t notice and doesn’t care. Jackson’s wailing, she’s screaming and now pointing at him, slams her beer down on the edge of the stage and rips her shirt off and throws it at him. He grabs it out of mid-air, tossing it aside, never misses a beat. At this point, we see her man-friend, a giant mustachioed biker-type fellow, come lumbering down the aisle after her, yelling “calm yer drunk ass down!” He grabs her and tries to lead her out of the tent, but she spins out of his grasp and runs off to one side of the stage and out of sight… The next thing we know, she’s sprinting up the stairs, past security, past the sound man, up on stage and heading straight for Jackson! I remember screaming “Jaaaaaaacksooooonnnnnn!!!!” (in slow-motion of course) but it’s too late, she grabs him from behind and starts dancing up on him. He looks back, confused as hell, tries to shake her off, still playing the whole time, he kicks his hips back and she finally loses her grip and falls sprawling on the ground. Jax steps forward and finishes his solo as security drags her off stage, the crowd is going absolutely wild, just losing it! Best solo ever. The band kicks in and Arleigh blasts out the end of the song to a standing ovation as we all crack up and try to make sense of what just happened. I really REALLY wish someone had good video footage of that, but as of now we’ve yet to see it. If you or someone you know was there, please ask around, the world needs to see this. Oh, and I almost forgot the best part was as she was being led away from the stage she was screaming, “NO! NO! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME GO BACK TO THE MENTAL HOSPITAL! I WON’T GO BACK!” Sorry lady, not sure that particular call is yours to make.

The next few days were spent in and out of the studio, doing all kinds of arcane musical science—horn science, guitar science, harmonica science… It’s a pretty subtle and delicate process making a record, complicated for us by the fact that we were doing it between road stints. Such is our dedication to our fans! I don’t need to say this again but I might as well, this record is gonna be something else. I’m really proud of the work we’ve all done. As an aside, those six days we spent in the city recording were the longest stretch of time we had been home in over three months. Holy whoa now.

The next Saturday we convened in the early morning and drove to Huntington, WV, an eleven hour drive. It was raining as we pulled in, the sun long ago having set. As we sat in the green room listening to the opening band, a singer and a guitar duo, we heard them go into a familiar strain and slowly realized, to our surprise and delight, that they were covering ‘Hollow Bones!’ First time we’ve heard someone cover a song of ours, awesome feeling to see our music spreading it’s wings across the country. The club had a giant mural of the Good Doctor Hunter S. Thompson in the backyard, a positive sign of things to come.

"We'd be fools not ride this strange torpedo all the way out to the edge."

After we played that time at the Zoo in Wichita, we landed a couple of other gigs in Kansas, one of which was our Friday night show at the Granada Theater in Emporia. What an beautiful venue! Freshly renovated old movie theater. Check it out:

Whoa now.

The owners have teamed up with the local radio station, KISS 103.1, to put on events. So, apparently ‘Freight Train’ and ‘Untie My Shoelaces’ had been busting out of people’s radios for some time. When people have heard us and know we’re coming, it can be really special. I never heard the final number, but there were almost 500 people there, packed into seats and pressed up against the stage. Awesome, awesome show. Later, after we had packed the van, some locals took us down to a bar where an afterparty was already raging, with a great local band funkin it up. When the bar closed, we found ourselves out on the street with about 50 other people, Ryan looked over at me said “come on, let’s do this” and launched into a full-out vocal jam. I joined in and soon all the birds had formed a circle, at first a few and then more and morelocals joining in, clapping and raising our voices to the night.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=odBZA9l2zdM

Aaaaand, this:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=SbMiDKg1Ag8

Vocal jams are the best way to make new friends. We proceeded to ramble down the street with about 20 people dancing along with us. At one point a cop car rolled up next to us, took one look at us in our general insanity, bemusedly shook his head and just drove away. That night also finally ended with us singing The Band songs in the hotel (recurring theme? yes).

Our second to last show of the run was back in Wichita at The Boulevard, hosted by Mr. Don Bean. It was a great, diverse crowd, full of people of all ages who had seen us at the zoo or elsewhere or read about us in the local paper. A couple of people even drove from Oklahoma City to catch us because it was the closest show we were playing to them. Actually, this had been happening all tour—people driving upwards of three hours, planning little mini-vacations to come see us. Amazing. I’m telling you, things are getting very interesting. A family friend of ours owns a spiritual retreat just outside of town, and we had the following Sunday and Monday off again (well, “off” is a strong word—Monday we drove for 17 hours en route to West Virginia) so we took the opportunity to decompress. Stretched out on buffalo rugs, thinking and smiling, taking swims in his pool. Thank you Richard and Paula, you are amazing beautiful people. Sincerely, thank you for everything. Then, as I said, we drove for a really, really long time and then played at PJ Kelly’s once again (video tour of the crazy basement, liquor running ghosts etc—I would direct you to the first entry at this point, but it accidentally got deleted. Sorry.) Just another raging Tuesday night in Clarksburg, what can I say? Ha. And then back and back and back to Brooklyn. So… Whew! We made it.

As always, thank you for taking this journey with us. More soooon, promise!

Yr friend,

Bram